Samson and Delilah
by Guttersnipe
Summary: “Tell me...what the secret of your strength is?” she whispers to him again tonight. “The lotus in the hourglass,” he lies again, watching his secret as she smiles over her treacherous thoughts. Kanda X Lenalee


Samson and Delilah

Disclaimer: I do not own _D. Gray-Man_. That copyright belongs to Katsura Hoshino.

"Tell me...what the secret of your strength is?" she whispers to him again tonight.

"The lotus in the hourglass," he lies again, watching his secret as she smiles over her treacherous thoughts.

But she is beautiful when she smiles, regardless of the sentiment behind the action. And though she may fall for his lies, believe what he leads her around with, she still knows him better than anyone; his motives, his reasons—she knows it all. She can explain away his disregard for human life, his disrespect of authority and manners, his harsh words for everyone he meets. She can explain those away, and make it sound justified—he is justified in her eyes. And so she understands him, even with the lies she takes from him every night (_she is conniving, but that does not mean she is not naive_). Perhaps it is because she can explain his ways, that she believes his lies. She thinks she knows him; knows him better than all others. She should know his truths. So, she believes him.

And he lies.

And she lies.

And she cries and begs him when she finds out, a victim holding a bloody knife behind her back. And though he knows of the danger she barely conceals, he cannot but give her the answer she seeks.

"You."

"Lies..." she rasps, shaking her head at his words, eyes hurt, even as she pursues his undoing. "More lies, Kanda."

"Just because you can't believe it doesn't make it untrue," he answers, his eyes trained on her rapidly flickering features, shifting between panic, pain, and plotting (_but still beautiful. Yes... Always_).

Why she does it, he cannot explain. It isn't that he doesn't know why—he _knows_ exactly why. He has seen too much of her, held too much of her, _felt_ too much of her, not to understand her motives. And it is because he has seen and held and felt so much of her that he cannot explain it. Somewhere inside him, in a place covered in dark tattoos, he _understands_. But he has never been able to _explain_ the processes of that part of his being. And so he cannot explain this.

Her reclusive gaze tells him she is unaware of his comprehension of her motives. Those eyes...sidestepping his with crumbling remorseless dignity.

She has her reasons. He understands this.

And he has his own reasons for chasing after her despite it all.

She needn't be ashamed before him. Anyone else would be and should be. He would make them rue such twofaced actions. But he knows her. She has a good reason. She does. She _must_. He doesn't believe in much but he does believe in this.

She runs away. So many times she had tried to do so before, only to be dragged back, missing another part of her; a speck of a sparkle in her eyes; a shade of health in her cheeks; the dimple beside her lips when she smiled.

Not this time. She gets away and stays away.

He ignores the brand burning at the organ beneath his tattooed skin—the same part that he finds impossible to express—when he realizes she has run away from him, _to_ someone else. He isn't her safety anymore. The Order has always scared her, but he has always been a haven to run to. Now he finds himself in the cold role of the spectre dogging her heels; the malevolent shadow seeking to pull her back into the Black.

Somehow he has betrayed her, though it is she who stands by grey-skinned destroyers, watching him with disdain and, yes, _fear_.

Because she is thinking he should not be here. He should not have come. Why? Why has he come?

But of course he would come after her.

Perhaps she truly didn't believe his words.

Perhaps she didn't believe _they_ would use her in such a way against him.

But he did mean what he said—disclosed his dark truth to the one who would undo him.

And they did use her against him, as he realized they would.

She was so naive to think she would go unmarked by her choices.

Watching her as his wounds grow larger, his rapid healing completely nullified in his exhaustion, he cannot bring himself to use the last of his strength for maximum damage. He could kill one, at least. (_Yes, one would be enough..._) But they will keep her close; a small target that his uncoordinated, final stab would no doubt strike. They are devious like that.

The pain in his rent body grows to unbearable, just before death's numb hand reaches into his chest, calming his heart to stillness. And the last thing his eyes see before they dim with death is her lips forming a word, tears streaming over his name, as dark, sheared locks fall past his lifeless face.

**The End**

**Guttersnipe's Word:** Wow that was short. I think that was the shortest story I've written for this site. The idea for this one popped into my head when I was writing _The S-Factor_ (those of you who have read it will probably understand why). Geez. I totally made Lenalee one of those characters you just want to smack around for a good three hours for being so retarded. It's not as though I don't like the character, because I do. Obviously this is severe Alternate Reality. It's not meant to be canon. This would never happen.

A review would be nice! Please do! Review, that is. Thanks.


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